Come of Age
by Lafayette1777
Summary: Slight Alternate Universe, set in book four. The Ministry has decided to lower the age restriction for entering a name into the Triwizard Tournament, to sixteen instead of seventeen. For the Weasley twins, this is everything. And they have no idea what lies at the end of it all.
1. Breaking the Silence

**Author's Note: Ok, so beginning of multi-chapter fic, alternate universe where the age restriction for the Triwizard Tournament is decided to be sixteen rather than seventeen, allowing the Weasley twins to enter. Drama, action, and romance shall ensue! Hope it is enjoyable and, just saying, I seriously love reviews! (P.S. Just a warning, the title may change at some point in the future if I think of something better.)**

The Minister of Magic glides into the dim room, realizing, with a frown, that he is not the last to arrive. One spot is still empty, and he tries not to look at it as he settles himself into the seat at the head of the long, dark wood table.

Bartemius Crouch is at his right, stony faced, as is usual. He taps two fingers on the surface of the table absently, noticeably silent as the rest of those gathered chat amiably around them.

"Everything alright, Barty?"

He jumps as though awakened from a sudden trance. "Oh, yes, I should think so."

"Where is he?" the Minister asks, glaring at the empty seat to his left.

"He'll be here," Susan Bones tries to smile comfortingly from her seat across from him.

"Well, I'm a busy man. We need to get on with this," Fudge clears his throat. "Your attention, please."

The twenty or so witches and wizards assembled quiet their voices and turn toward him. The heads of all departments involved, no matter how remotely, including the foreign ambassadors. Two of the heads of the schools, one mysteriously absent. These monthly meetings are vital to the planning of this event, it's important to be professional, to be on time. It's all gone wrong in the past, and it can't go wrong again.

He's enlisted the help of one of the visiting Egyptian Minister's assistants, and though visiting England on unrelated business, he obliged to hand the young woman over for the morning. She's olive skinned, and looks like she's just barely out of school, though she hasn't smiled once since entering the room. When he calls the room to attention she diligently takes out her wand, poised to let the words flow onto the parchment in front of her.

Fudge is halfway into the first bullet point on his agenda when _he_ finally arrives, as confident as always, smiling at the room and somehow getting them all to smile back.

"Terribly sorry for my tardiness," Dumbledore says gracefully. "For good reason, I assure you. Won't happen again. Minister, please continue."

He takes a quick seat on Fudge's left, smiling expectantly. Ludo Bagman, to the right of Crouch, seems to take the same expression on his plump face.

"Right, then," the Minister recovers, glancing down at his notes for reassurance. "We were debating age restrictions and the enforcement of any restrictions."

"Well, obviously we can't have eleven year olds putting their name in the Goblet," Arthur Weasley, his voice having to stretch far down the table to reach the highest of official's ears.

"So, perhaps fifteen then? O.W.L. age?" Rufus Scrimgeour, head of the Aurors, says from his place next to Bones. After the events at the World Cup, they're already launched into a nightmare of security measures, some beginning to move into action at Hogwarts as they spoke. With students arriving in two weeks, they've moved away from organizing the tasks and directed the meetings to the finer details, so that the headmasters won't know what to tell their champions, once they're chosen.

"Zat ees too young," Olympe Maxime protests. "My stoodents take zeir exams late-air."

"How about sixteen, then?" Bagman proposes.

This seems to satisfy Maxime, but there is a slight, pointed cough from a short woman in pink cardigan, peeking out from behind the large woman's elbow.

"You have an objection, Dolores?" Fudge asks.

"I think it may be more appropriate to restrict the age to seventeen," she smiled sweetly out at the table, and for a moment, there was silence.

"I'm afraid I have to disagree with you," Fudge tries to suppress the cringe that creeps up on him as Dumbledore speaks for the first time. "Students ineligible will want to feel connected to the champions, but the number of students at Hogwarts who will be seventeen by October is very minimal. Of course, I cannot speak for my counterparts at the Durmstrang Institute and the Beauxbatons Academy, but the larger pool of students able to enter the names will generate further interest among their friends."

Madame Maxime was nodding agreement, even Karkaroff, nearly invisible, had no reservations.

"Should be safe enough," Bones agrees. "They'll all have taken their O.W.L.s. The difference of one year is minimal."

Fudge, he'll admit, is not thinking about student safety at that particular moment. His thoughts are more along the lines of, for once, not letting Dumbledore run the show.

"Sixteen year olds? Preposterous. They'll get themselves killed," he retorts.

But the table does not sway to his will as he hoped it would. Many remain wordless, eyes dodging toward Dumbledore every few seconds.

"Perhaps we should vote on it," Dumbledore says lightly.

Fudge sighs, but knows it _is_ the proper procedure.

"All in favor of setting the age restriction at seventeen, to coincide with what the International Federation of Wizards considers coming of magical age?"

Hands raise. Fudge doesn't look to closely at the numbers, but lets the Egyptian Minister's assistant take note instead.

"All in favor of lowering the proposed restriction to sixteen years old?" he asks the group in a weary voice.

It's undeniably a majority. Even the assistant in the corner raises her hand for a moment, but seems to think better of it a second later and simply records the number.

"Miss?" Fudge inquires, once she's looked up from the page

"Oh...fifteen to eight, in favor of a restriction of sixteen," she says, with an accent that is not Arabic.

"That's that," Ludo Bagman declares cheerily. "Sixteen it is. What's our next item, sir?"

Fudge barely hears him, directing his glare at the table instead of Dumbledore's open and yet somehow quietly secretive face.

m m m

The moment the Goblet of Fire is unveiled, there is a familiar stirring inside him, a feeling that always seems to associate itself with the tug of nerves as you slip out of your enemy's sight just in time, or that rush of adrenaline as you plunge down in a sudden dive on a broom.

The look he exchanges with George, though, is the most telling—anyone who had ever met them would have immediately known that things are about to get interesting.

Angelina knows that look, and smiles in familiarity with it's consequences.


	2. One Night

"Of course, you have to do it."

"No shit, Ron."

"Well, then why are we sitting here?"

It's quite a crowd that has gathered in the Gryffindor common room on the eve of Halloween. Fred and George, accompanied by Angelina Johnson and Lee Jordan, and joined by Ron, Harry, and Hermione. Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell come up later, settling on to the sides of armchairs to add to the group.

"It's late," Angelina says. "Most people are doing it in the morning."

She's conferred with other sixth and seventh years. All of them seem to be a little weary of the blazing Goblet, but no one says anything.

"You really want to do it front of everyone?" Harry asks incredulously. "What if it throws your name right back out or something?"

Fred shrugs.

"I don't think it could hurt to sleep on it a night," Hermione advises cautiously. "Make sure you really want it. There's no going back."

Fred and George exchange a look, and a second later, "Let's do it now."

Hermione rolls her eyes and goes back to reading. Lee produces five strips of paper for Fred, George, Angelina, Alicia, and himself. Katie pouts, for she is still fifteen, and watches them scribble their names and school on the slips with a shared quill. They get up together, and Ron and his friends follow them down to the Great Hall.

The Durmstrang students are filing out when they arrive. Karkaroff eyes their black school robes and continues to frown. The Quidditch players in the Hogwarts group can't help but have their eyes follow Krum as he leads the group next to their headmaster.

Without really realizing it, they all pause at the golden Age Line. Those underage take a step back involuntarily. The Great Hall is very silent, the ceiling reflecting what has turned into a clear night. Dark shadows lurk in the corners, and it feels like every step is as loud as piano falling into a pile of whoopee cushions.

"Don't all try to put your name in at once," says Lee, who then, without a hint of nerves, steps forward and deposits his name in the fire. It turns purple a second, then back to blue. He grins back at the rest of them. "Not having second thoughts, are we?"

Though Fred knows he can't back down now, he does take a moment to think it over. This tournament is a big deal, and he figures it can't hurt to pause before making the commitment.

_A thousand galleons...eternal glory...and they're promising no one's going to dies this time..._

He glances at George to see if he can think of a downside to that. He meets his eyes and shrugs. "Why not?"

"Together, then?"

"I suppose so."

Clutching the papers in their hands, they step over the golden line, and approach the burning cup slowly. They don't hesitate in depositing their names and stepping back out again. Angelina does it next, and finally, after some extra encouragement, so does Alicia.

"So, that's it, then?" George says as they begin to drift back upstairs.

"Until tomorrow night," Fred replies.

In their dormitory, Raymond Vance and Walt Robothem are already sleeping when Fred, George, and Lee arrive. The three get into their beds mechanically, none of them expecting to sleep a wink until the champions had been chosen.


	3. Full of Surprises

Anyone who talks to the Weasley twins over the next day has to repeat themselves at least once, as in any second they're not talking or eating their minds stray to the Halloween feast and what will come with it.

After a day that seems to last years, they tuck in to a feast that is particularly silent among their group of friends. Angelina's eyes dart toward the Goblet every other second, while Alicia just looks a little green around the gills and doesn't eat much. Lee appears to be the only one not affected by the Goblet, wolfing down food and trying to chat jovially with Katie, who is still sulking.

Dumbledore, after an eternity, whisks away the food. All talk fades away, and the hearts of the five friends jump into their throats. Dumbledore begins to speak but George can barely hear him, for there's a mysterious ringing in his ears that seems to block out all rational thought. A cold knot of dread has gathered in his stomach that he can't quite explain. It's not the end of the world if he doesn't get picked. And what's the worst that can happen if he does?

Next to him, Fred has gone pale, his lips set in a tight line. Angelina has a bone crushing grip on Fred's arm but he doesn't seem to notice.

The flames in the cup turn red without warning, and in a fraction of second a slip of paper has flown from the fire and into Dumbledore's hand. "The champion for Durmstrang will be...Viktor Krum!"

George takes a tiny breath to keep himself from going blue. The crowd claps for too long; it's years before the licking flames turn red again and Dumbledore snaps a name from the air. "The champion for Beauxbatons is—" he takes a moment to unfold the stationery, "is Fleur Delacour!"

A girl that could have been a Veela raises from the Ravenclaw table and glides into the allotted room.

The air becomes suffocating as they wait for the Goblet to act again. George is about ready to pass out. Alicia looks like she's just barely holding in the urge to throw up.

Dumbledore reaches for the parchment in slow motion. The piece is yellowed, ripped from someone's old potions essay. A familiar essay. The piece has four twins, all still lurking in the great cup. A clear voice rings out, "The Hogwarts champion is...Fred Weasley."

George has to poke him in the side twice before he can remember how to work his legs. They creak slowly into movement and he teeters past Angelina, clapping for all she's worth, past Lee's elated shouts, Alicia's relieved expression, and toward Dumbledore's warm smile.

Fleur and Krum look at him intently as he enters the smaller room, as do all the portraits on the walls, as though they're all already sizing him up for the coming fight.

He surprises himself with the ability to form words and his usual humored smile. "Evening."

The other two seem to still be in shock. Fleur manages a small smile, while Krum turns his brooding gaze back on the hearth. Fred joins them, stares into flames, not so unlike the Goblet of Fire. His heart is still hammering in his chest, to the point where he's sure his ribs will be bruised the next day. He stares deep into the embers and can't quite believe what's just happened, and what will be waiting for him now. He could win this tournament. All that money for the family, for he and George's slowly blooming business. His name in the papers, respectability for the Weasleys...all that, if he can only win this.

Footsteps from behind him break into his trance. Standing, illuminated from behind from the lights of the Great Hall, is Harry Potter, looking very small and very shocked.

"Er...hullo, Harry," Fred greets.

"What is it?" Fleur asks. "Do zey want us back in ze Hall?"

Harry looks up at them, looking vaguely bewildered and at a loss for words.

"What's going on, Harry?" Fred implores.

A familiar voice seems to jumpstart his tongue. "I have no idea."

Without warning, a crowd of adults thunder into the room. Fred, Fleur, and Krum take a step back and over the next half hour, discover that not only will there be a fourth champion, but that fourth champion will be a fourteen year old.

Fred and Harry wander through the empty castle together after they've been dismissed.

"You just can't catch a break, can you?" Fred tries to lift Harry's gloomy expression. "Every year it's something new and increasingly fucked up."

"I didn't put my name in there."

"I know," he replies. "Well, I figured at least."

"How?"

"I saw your expression when you came into that side room. And it sure as hell wasn't triumphant."

"Password?" asks the Fat Lady, once they've reached the seventh floor. Another witch has joined her in the portrait, with the intent of spreading the news of Harry's situation.

"Balderdash," says Harry dully.

The moment they step into the common room they are met with a collective scream so powerful that it nearly knocks them back a step. Immediately, Fred is engulfed in a bear hug from George, then Ron, then Angelina, and then, it seems, every other Gryffindor who'd ever spoken a single word to him.

Harry, though similarly swamped by people and questions, is clearly less enthused by the celebration. He manages to break through the crowd and up to bed after a few minutes.

Fred, however, is thoroughly enjoying himself.

Granted he doesn't have a lot to compare them to, but in his mind, Gryffindor parties are, and have always been, the best parties around. Food, some of his and George's inventions, a red banner draped around his shoulders, and music balaring from someplace unseen. He can't seen why he'd ever bother going to bed.

Finally, though, things begin to wind down in the early hours of the morning, and his adrenaline rush has worn off to the point where his warm bed doesn't seem to objectionable. Angelina gives him a good night hug and they exchange a dazzling smile before he follows George up to their dormitory.

"So, when's the first task?" George asks as they change into pajamas, eyes glowing with excitement.

"November twenty-fourth," Fred replies. "And I can't have teachers help, but seeing as they haven't told me what I'm doing..."

"Well, we'll figure something out."

Fred watches his brother out of the corner of his eye as they head away to brush their teeth. He has never felt so immensely glad in his life that he doesn't have to do anything alone. He'll admit that he was harboring some subconscious stress about George's reaction to all this. They have never had something that the other doesn't have an identical version of. He dismisses these thoughts now—this is George, for Merlin's sake, who he's sure has never envied another man in his life. George, whose always on the exact same wave length as him. Fred curses himself for ever doubting that they'd have each other's backs.

Despite the impending and mysterious competition lurking the future, Fred climbs into bed and sleeps through one of the most peaceful nights of his life.

m m m

Incidentally, this is also the night that George has his nightmare for the first time.

_He's staggering over green ground, great branches tearing at his face and hair, the leaves clouding his vision. It's all he can do to keep his wand out in front of him, to keep moving forward. He's just beginning to see the end of it all when suddenly there is a tug at his navel, and everything blurs. Next thing he knows, he's standing, though where, he can't tell. All is dark, and only the faintest hints of voices reach his ears, as though speaking through a closed door. A flash of lights hits him, too fast for him to see the color, and then he falls backwards, into a darkness so complete it's suffocates him, becomes him. _

He wakes up before he hits the bottom of whatever he's fallen into, with the unshakable feeling that there is no bottom to hit. He's breathing hard and feeling as tired as though he stayed up the whole night, which in retrospect seems like it would have been a far better idea. But light is already pouring in the windows, Lee's already stirring in his bed, and so George pulls back the sheets and gets ready for the day.


	4. Save Us All

Breakfast comes with an unusually large number of owls swooping down to drop mail in Fred's breakfast cereal. Clearly, news of the champion selection has spread fast.

He fishes out a now sodden envelope from Bill out of his milk, just as another, from Charlie, implants itself in George's eggs.

"Even the owls can't tell us apart," grins George.

A letter from Mum and Dad arrives a few minutes later, and Fred prods it with his wand to make sure it's not a Howler before opening it.

"How're they taking it?" George asks.

"They're proud. Mum's worried, of course. They say they'll try to get down to see me compete. Bill and Charlie, too."

"Anything from Percy?"

"Too busy with his cauldron bottoms, I suspect. Poor Weatherby."

They roar with laughter just as Angelina sits down next to Fred. "I hear they're doing the Weighing of the Wands and the first interview today," she says knowingly, nudging Fred excitedly.

"Already?" George says incredulously. "He's barely had time to breathe!"

Angelina notices he seems to have dark circles under his eyes, but makes no remark on the subject. "Eh, I don't make the rules."

Angelina, George has noticed, has always been a little friendlier to Fred. They work fine as a trio, of course, but there's just a touch of a chill between them. George isn't sure if this bothers him or if he cares at all—Angelina is a friend and he should need nothing more. Fred, however, has been wonderfully oblivious for the six years that they've been a threesome at Hogwarts.

George forgets these ruminations as they head toward their first class, Potions. A month into the school year, all three of them are seriously regretting entering the N.E.W.T. level class. Then it's a free period for Fred and George, who have taken the minimum number of classes possible, and after lunch they're off to Divination, where a second year appears through the trap door to tell them that Fred Weasley needs to come downstairs.

"Good luck," George mouthes as Fred backs down the ladder. Fred just grins in response.

The nameless, nervous looking second year takes him to a smaller classroom, where Fleur and Krum seem to be carrying on a light conversation in a few of the desks that haven't been pushed against the walls.

"Ahh, Mr. Weasley, good, excellent," Ludo Bagman greets him. "We should be able to get started soon."

He's barely finished his sentence when Harry arrives, which sends Bagman waddling toward him elatedly. Soon Rita Skeeter's dragging Harry off to what appears to be a broom cupboard, and Fred can't help but feel sorry for the younger boy.

He's standing in the middle of the room, wondering exactly what he's supposed to be doing right now, when a voice calls to him from behind.

"Fred, ees eet?" Fleur has turned toward him, glowing slightly in the afternoon sun. It takes him a moment to focus his brain on English.

"Yes, good to meet you," he holds out a hand to her, which she shakes gingerly, and says "Fleur Delacour."

He offers a hand to Krum, who grips it for a moment and says nothing.

"Do you 'ave any idea what might ze first task be?" she asks kindly.

"I haven't the slightest idea, I'm afraid."

"I zuppoze you could not tell me even if you did."

Fred would like to say that is true, that he can hold is tongue if it means winning the tournament, but he honestly can't say how long his willpower would hold up against a creature that so clearly resembles a Veela.

He tries to smile in a friendly manner, just as Dumbledore enters the classroom, followed by an old man Fred recognizes to be the wandmaker Ollivander.

He takes Fleur's wand first, and sees no problem with it, giving it a quick flick and producing a bouquet of flowers from thin air. Fred smiles discreetly, thinking of how many times his father has performed the same spell on the nights he's especially late home from work.

"Mr. Weasley, your wand, if you please."

Fred pulls it from the pocket in his robes and hands it over. It glints a dark purple as light falls upon it, before shrouded in shadow by the body of Ollivander.

"Yes, this is one mine, am I right?"

Fred nods.

"Purple heart, took me an unholy amount of time to procure this wood, I assure you. Very beautiful, though, and it's magical properties are so strong all I had to do was fill it with some willow leaves and a couple moonstone slivers for control. Somewhat yielding. Twelve inches. A knick on the handle," Ollivander raises a critical eyebrow at him, as though offended that Fred would dare damage the rare wood. "And it has a twin, you know."

He immediately thinks of George, before remembering that his wand is the entirely different make up of yew and amethyst.

"Just sold it to a young woman a few months ago who broke hers in a broom collision. Nasty accident, but she seemed satisfied with the wand," Ollivander tears his eyes away from the wand for a moment and glances at Fred. "Perhaps you'll meet her some day."

Fred takes his wand back, thinking that that particular happenstance seems particularly unlikely. Anyhow, the significance, if it exists, of such an event would be completely lost on him.

Ollivander eyes Krum's Gregorovitch made wand, and then Harry's phoenix cored one. Finally, Dumbledore begins to dismiss them all to dinner, when Bagman stops him, proclaiming that pictures need to be taken first. They take a group photograph first, which takes much fiddling over placement and light and who should be in front, and then singles for each of them. At the end of it all, Fred is thoroughly exhausted, and ready to sit and enjoy a nice traditional Hogwarts meal.

m m m

While Fred is spending his afternoon submerged in tournament madness, George is slumped over a crystal ball in Divination, staring off deep into space and hoping he can pass it off as a prophetic trance, if the need should arise.

Lee Jordan, in the armchair across from him, is glaring in bewilderment in the swirling depths of the crystal ball.

"I don't know about you, but I can't see shit in this," Lee says after a while. "Looks like liquid pillow in there."

"Ungh," grunts George noncommittally.

"What's up with you?"

"Didn't sleep well last night," he mutters, propping himself up and trying to look alert as Trelawney approaches them.

"So, dears, what are we predicting?" she asks, her magnified eyes boring into each of their vaguely slack jawed faces.

"Er...I think I'm seeing some clouds in there..." Lee improvises. "So I'll be it'll be cloudy tomorrow. Or maybe dementors. One or the other."

"Yep. That." George nods vigorously.

Trelawney looks skeptical. "Let me have a glance with the elusive inner eye."

Lee and George exchange apathetic glances.

She stares into the silvery depths for a few moments, then takes a hurried step back, sucking a in a dramatically terrified gasp.

"For Merlin's sake, what is it now?" George says before he can stop himself.

"My dear, I see great darkness in your future."

"I'm sure."

"Soon, you will face a choice between life and death for yourself, and life and death for another."

This stops his next sarcastic comment in it's tracks. For once, she's being surprisingly coherent, though still vague. "What do you mean?"

She takes a closer look at the ball. "I'm afraid that's all there is."

"Right," he murmurs. _Of course it's unanswerable bullshit. This is Trelawney. It's not that hard to make up deadly predictions._

Seeing she's lost his faith once again, she slinks off. Class dismisses a few minutes later, and as he climbs down the ladder behind Lee, George can feel her pitying gaze upon his back.


	5. Decency

It's probably the last day of the fall that resembles any warmth when the three of them trek down to the lakeside to finish up their weekend homework. Trees have turned to vibrant shades of red and orange, and the sun is glinting off the dark waters of the lake, occasionally exposing, in silhouette, the tip of the giant squid's tentacle. It's beautiful, but already the Sunday evening melancholia has set in, tensing them for Monday morning's arrival. They try to finish up their fifteen inch Potions essay while contemplating whether to test out a few new products in the hope that it'll put them out of commission for the beginning of tomorrow.

Fred leans back against the trunk of the tree and stares blankly into the Forbidden Forest, cracking his neck slightly and trying not to think about the looming first task. Movement, a few seconds later, catches his eye, and it takes him a moment to focus on the red blur.

"George," he says. "I think I'm hallucinating."

"Huh?"

He lifts a hand and points at the red haired man making frantic motions from the edge of the forest.

Angelina leans across them to get a closer look. "Who the hell is that?"

"That's Charlie," George says, his tone full of disbelief.

Charlie's mouthing something they can't hear, but they can see him beckoning for them to come towards him. They glance around quickly, and, by some miracle, find the rest of the immediate grounds devoid of life. Leaving their books, parchment, and quills, they hurry across the open grass and into the twilight of the forest, where Charlie's waiting for them with a grin. He hugs George, then Fred, and introduces himself to Angelina, who smiles shyly.

"Congratulations!" he says elatedly to Fred. "I trust you got my owl?"

"Yeah, it was great. But...um...what are you doing here?"

Charlie is similar in look to Fred and George, but with unruly hair and burns scars up his exposed forearms. "Breaking the rules," he replies with a mischievous expression. "Come with me."

Fred and George exchange a look before following their elder brother into the treacherous forest. Angelina hesitates a moment, then strips off her outer robes and picks her way over shrubbery and roots after them.

"Stay close," Charlie warns. "Haven't the slightest idea what else is in here."

Fred did not like the way he said _else._

They see the jets of flames before they see anything else. Soon the four of them come upon a small hedge, just small enough for them to peek over and behold the scene before them. Fred's eyes widen, and when he looks to his left, so have George's.

Four enormous dragons are chained to the forest floor, sleeping peacefully, it seems, minus the occasional snore that causes a small bonfire to erupt from each nostril. When this happens, a wizard runs forth and extinguishes any plant life that had been lit up.

"Ladies and gentleman," says Charlie. "I give you the first task."

The three stare in terrified awe at the sleeping dragons.

After a moment, George says, "Shit, mate, you're doomed."

"Thanks, asshole," Fred snaps, but when he looks over, George is grinning.

"Just kidding. Don't kill me," he turns to Charlie. "What does he have to do to it anyway?"

"Don't know. Probably wouldn't tell you if I did. The only reason I can find this morally reasonable is because practically everybody else already knows."

"Charlie, morals? Who are you and what have you done with our brother?"

"Piss off," he retorts with a smile. "Compared to some, I'm a fucking saint. I saw Karkaroff making a run for it after he snuck out here to get a peek."

"Who else knows?" Angelina asks.

"Hagrid brought Madam Maxime out here, so Fleur Delacour probably. And Krum, of course, thanks to his headmaster. I caught up with Ron yesterday, he's likely told Harry—"

"Nah, I think they've had a row or something," George inputs.

"Well, then you should probably tell Harry. He shouldn't be the only one with a disadvantage. Doesn't seem right, you know?"

"Alright, we'll find him."

They stare at the four, almost peaceful looking, dragons for a few minutes more. But it's getting dark, and so Charlie leads them back to the edge of the forest.

"Are we going to see you again?" George asks.

"Probably not. We'll be on hand during the task but no one's supposed to know we're there and they say we're heading back to Romania right after that."

"You'll come home for Christmas?" Fred says hopefully.

Charlie just smiles. "Dragons don't take the day off on holidays."

"Right." They both hug him one more time.

"Good luck, Fred," he calls as they rush back across the grass. They wave, but he's already disappearing into the trees.

The night has almost completely set in, dew beginning to settle on the leaves and their discarded essays. They brush off their things and rush back to the castle, where Filch gives them a hard time about their tardiness. The twins make a mental note to leave him a box of unique sweets the next morning.


	6. Utter Panic

Dinner on Sunday evening allows no time for Fred or George to talk to Harry in private, and by the time they get up to the common room Harry has already drifted off to bed.

"We'll have to catch him in the morning," George concludes.

"Yeah, I suppose," Fred agrees vaguely, finding that his loss of focus on Harry has returned his thoughts to the dragon, and what the hell he's supposed to do about it.

Back in their dormitory, he tries to release the tension in his shoulders as he and George look over a list of product ideas and send off a few completed order forms.

"Do you think we should try to get our money out of Ludo Bagman, now that he's gonna be around all the time?" George asks, curled up at the end of his bed. Fred, whose lying against his pillows and staring at the ceiling, takes a moment to register his words.

"I dunno."

"If you win the tournament then it's completely inconsequential anyway. Maybe we should just hope for that. And the guy is a judge anyway, we'll want to stay on his good side," George determines. "Hey, you alright?"

Fred is pale, his lips pressed together in hard line, his eyes blank. George can count on one hand how many times he's seen him this worried. Not for O.W.L.s last year, not on their first day at Hogwarts. But the dragon has gotten to him, that much is obvious.

"Hey, listen. At least we know about them, right? It'll be fine. Tomorrow we'll go to the library—" he ignores Fred's groan, "and we'll get Angelina to help us figure out how to defeat a dragon. It's gotta be in there somewhere."

Fred still looks painfully vulnerable as George climbs into his own bed.

"It's not like they're gonna let you die out there," he continues. "And there's no shame if you don't win. It's just a school competition. In twenty years, the outcome of this particular tournament will be completely irrelevant."

Fred doesn't say anything.

"Just go to sleep," George says, turning over and hoping that his own sleep will be undisturbed by dreams.

m m m

Fred follows Harry out of the Great Hall the next morning, just catching up to him before the younger boy leaves to head down to Herbology.

"Harry!" he calls. Hermione waves but continues her walk to class so that they're alone in the hallway. Fred wants to ask why Ron isn't with them, but keeps himself on topic.

"The first task...I thought you should know—" Fred breathes. "It's..."

"Dragons, I know," Harry says glumly, and they exchange a look of panic. "Hagrid showed me."

"Good. It just seemed decent that no one had an obvious disadvantage. If one of us is going to cheat...well, you get the idea." Fred hears heavy footsteps echoing down a the nearby stairs. "Good luck, Harry."

"You too," he hears him reply, before sprinting back to the Great Hall, where George and Angelina are waiting. One look back shows Professor Moody approaching Harry in the hallway, and Fred hopes he hasn't just gotten them both in trouble. Then he remembers the dragon, and decides that nothing else really matters. And since when has he ever cared about getting in trouble?

In their free period, the three of them trek down to the library, and with much complaining, submerge themselves into all dragon related books. It's slow work, combined with stress not only about the task but about their massive amounts of homework. The hours pass too quickly, without any decent answer appearing.

"This says that dragon's weaknesses are their eyes," Angelina says, half obscured by the pages of a massive textbook. "All you need a is a Conjunctivitis Curse."

"That'd be pretty easy," George agrees.

"Yeah, in theory...but what if I miss? It's a small target on a moving, fire breathing dragon. I'd probably just piss it off."

"You could try to stun it...?" George glances back down at his book. "Er, no, never mind, you need something more powerful."

"I assume they don't let you use Unforgivables?" Fred mutters darkly, only half kidding.

"In front of a crowd of Ministry officials and teachers? Yeah, I think not," George replies.

"It's inhumane, anyway," Angelina adds without looking up from her reading.

They look at her oddly. "They're dragons, Ang," Fred says.

"Still...well, I don't make up the rules," she dismisses their slightly amused expressions.

"No idea you had such compassion for our reptilian friends," George scoffs.

"Just trying to have morals, George, I know that's a foreign concept for you," she retorts.

"Haven't heard any complaining from you before, have we?"

"Shut up, you two," Fred snaps. "Dragons, people! Bicker later, dammit."

They mutter some swears and return to their reading. A few minutes later, George speaks again. "You could use a Switching Spell."

"Like switch out it's talons for licorice wands or something?" Fred adds. "Yeah, I was just reading about that."

"I think you'd have to switch a lot of things very quickly, because there's a number of threatening bits on a dragon," says Angelina. "I dunno, you'd probably manage, if you're willing to take the risk."

Fred sighs, one part exhaustion, one part dread. "Well, let's try it. See if we can borrow someone's owl."

They head back up to the Gryffindor common room while everyone else is finishing up their morning classes. Without bothering to ask Ron, they snatch Pigwidgeon, and try to turn his tiny talons into his candy. Fred has a hard time aiming, though, as Pigwidgeon zooms about the common room without a moment's rest. They work through lunch, but barely even manage to hit Pig half a dozen times.

Fred leaves for Charms feeling more tense and incapable than he has in a long while.

He has the vague feeling for the rest of the afternoon that his teachers want him to do work, but he spends so much time staring into space that he doesn't hear their berating words. After dinner, he attempts to do some of the homework George informs him they've been assigned, but after half an hour he's written four words and is on the verge of a panic attack.

It's not yet eight o'clock, but George tells him to go to bed.

Crawling in between the sheets and under the blankets, Fred tries to think straight enough to contemplate why he's losing his mind all the sudden. He's shocking himself at his reaction to all this, and he can't imagine what his brother and friends are thinking.

"It's just a fucking tournament," he says aloud to the empty dorm.

And yet, somehow the thick knot of crippling dread in his stomach doesn't dislodge itself. If anything, it becomes even more inexplicable.


	7. Stroke of Brilliance

When George awakes, his stomach in his throat, and he's discouraged to find that morning has yet to break. The sensation of endless falling is still fresh in his mind, and he's twitchy and noticeably shaking. So, naturally, when his eyes find the shadowy figure leaning over his brother's bed, he snatches for his wand and is a second away from hexing it before it moves first.

"_Expelliarmus!_" the nearly invisible figure snaps, and his wand lands with a hollow clack on the cold stone floor. "_Lumos."_

Angelina's irritated face is illuminated as Fred is roused from sleep. Lee mutters a swear and turns over, and the other boys don't bother to wake up.

"You gonna curse me, George?"

"Curse the mysterious stranger sneaking into our dormitory?" George retorts. "Never."

"What is it?" Fred asks, rubbing at his eyes and trying to sit up. George stays under his covers, but watches them.

"I couldn't sleep," Angelina begins. "so I thought about it." She smiles. "And I figured it out."

"Figured what out?"

"The Switching Spell's a crapshoot. You need a better option. You have to _transfigure_ it, Fred. Specifically, into a ferret."

"Why a ferret?" George asks.

"Have you ever seen a less threatening creature?"

"I dunno...what about, like, a goldfish or something?" he replies. "Pretty sure Fred can manage a goldfish."

"Well, the animal's irrelevant at the moment," Angelina continues, looking back at Fred, who is looking at her with awe. "You should be able to manage, if we practice in the morning. It'll be hard, dragons being so big...but you'll be fine, I'm sure. It's better than Plan A."

"That's brilliant," Fred murmurs. Angelina's leaning over him excitedly, their faces inches apart, so close he can smell her perfume. For a moment, he considers what this would look like on the Marauder's Map; Angelina Johnson's banner directly on top of Fred Weasley's, middle of the night in the boy's dormitory.

He seriously hopes Harry isn't inspecting the map at this particular moment.

Or maybe it doesn't bother him _that_ much.

Angelina seems to feel the moment also. She averts her eyes and leans back, muttering, "see you in the morning," before hurrying off. Fred doesn't have a chance to say anything else, and it's a long time before he moves.

"Right, then," says George with an eye roll, invisible in the dark. "Things are looking up."

They exchange a look and can barely see the whites of each other's eyes.

"See you in the morning," says Fred.

"Yep."

George turns over, but doesn't sleep. Some subconscious part of him knows that the moment he closes his eyes, he'll be back in the inescapable fall.

m m m

In the morning, Fred, George, and Angelina shove a few breakfast bits into their mouths before rushing off to an empty classroom. A couple skipped classes and by lunch Fred has succeeded in shrinking both of them down to rats and then back up again, both with very tolerant expressions etched on their faces.

At lunch, he tries to eat, but his throat isn't really into the whole swallowing thing.

"Okay, okay," he whispers under his breath. "It's all okay. Okay."

Soon, too soon, McGonagall is hurrying his way. "Mr. Weasley, it's time to get ready for the first task," she says tersely.

He looks to George, and then to Angelina.

"You'll be fine," she says.

George just puts a hand on his shoulder and meets his eyes solemnly. "See you on the other side, brother."

He climbs to his feet and follows McGonagall from the hall.

There's a stretch here where it all blurs in his mind as panic and insecurity take over. He can't remember the last time he's felt like this. There's something wrong, he can feel it, but can't quite touch it. Nothing else can explain this irrational fear, so unlike the true Fred Weasley.

Bagman says something about a Golden Egg, and he has the vaguest memory of reaching into a bag and pulling out blue model of a dragon, then staring at it uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before they're pushing him out the tent flap into afternoon sunlight.

Things begin to come into focus as he lifts his wand, but he doesn't see the roaring crowd. His mind has lost tangible thought and moved onto pure instinct.

The ground appears to be made of volcanic, jagged black rock, surrounded by the wooden risers. Claw marks mar the rocks, and he swears he can see spots where it's melted recently and re-hardened.

He doesn't look at it, curled in the corner on the other side of the enclosure. If he looks at it, it's real, and this is really happening.

It's claws scrape loudly against the rock as it approaches him; it makes little wheezing sounds as it walks, clearly meant for air travel and not this treacherous terrain. It's a pale blue, with long back claws and nearly transparent wings. It's tail is practically longer than it's body. Blood red eyes bulge from a head that is supported by an impossibly short neck. He has no choice but to see it, to accept it's reality.

One more step, and the Swedish Short-Snout is upon him.


	8. Seconds and Darkness

**Author's Note: I know it's been forever since I've updated, and I'm sorry to come back now in the middle of the story. It's just been a crazy couple months. I should have more time to write now, so thanks for sticking with me if you're still there! And I love reviews, as always!**

His paralysis lasts a half second too long but he's lucky—he ducks behind a rock as the first jet of fire erupts in his direction. He doesn't stick around long enough for the beast to aim again, but pushes off the rocky earth, sprinting over the rough terrain in a vaguely circular path. The dragon turns slower, twisting it's massive body and shooting pillars of fire a few feet behind him as he keeps moving.

He's aware, peripherally, of the yells of the crowd. It blends together into a crush of indiscernible sound. He thinks that George and Angelina must be screaming encouragement from somewhere up there, but his own husky breathing makes it impossible to find their voices.

He's trying to get to a vantage point of some sort where he'll have a few seconds at the dragon's back. He knows that's the only way that he'll be able to focus long enough to have a prayer of transfiguring it before it barbeques him. He spares a glance at the makeshift arena, thinking that somewhere in the near vicinity Charlie is waiting to put him out if he gets lit on fire. Or maybe just tame the dragon before it can eat his charred corpse.

With these cheery thoughts in mind, Fred charges forward thinking that if he can just make it this next couple feet he'll be in a position—

The crunch of rock and the click of bone send him flying forward. There's a pain that floods up from his ankle, twisted in a sudden gulley in the uneven ground. He's landed, sprawled over the black stone, wand still in hand. Through the pain and the panic he hears the crowd gasp, and grits his teeth.

In seconds, the dragon's snout will be in range of him, and he realizes he won't be on his feet in time.

The beast's eyes are just making eye contact with his own when he raises his wand and shouts the spell, feels the power course through him and stream towards the dragon with surprising force. There's a deafening crack as the light connects with the dead center of it's face. There's a moment where nothing happens, where the entire arena is silent, waiting for something amazing. And in the next moment, Fred is sure he's about to get burned alive, until the dragon's eyes begin to bulge.

Fred stares on in wonder as the dragon begins to compact, it's head growing smaller and smaller and stretching backward toward it's body. He'll admit he isn't super clear on what it's turning into—his thoughts hadn't been too exact when he'd cast the spell in the first place, more along the lines of just _something that isn't going to kill me._

So when the features of a labrador retriever begin to become evident on the once dragon, he's as surprised as the crowd. It's front legs shrink into talon-less paws, it's wings blending into fur on it's sides and then disappear all together. But here it stops, leaving it's back half still bluish and scaly, the long, strong tail still very intact and shifting angrily over the rocks.

The dragon-dog growls in anguish, but not at him. It's stumbles to the side on it's uneven legs, howling, but revealing the golden egg from beneath. Fred sees his chance, ignoring the sharp crack of his foot as he pushes himself to his feet and scrambles forward to the place where the egg gleams in the afternoon lays his hands on it and the spectators erupt into applause and shouts. A grin spreads across his face as he lifts it up above his head, standing tall while keeping most of his weight off his right ankle, wand at his side.

But his moments in the sun are limited, as in what feels like seconds after lifting the egg, something long, strong, and reminiscent of a dragon's tail hurtles out of nowhere and sweeps his feet out from under him. He falls backwards, hands too full to catch himself, and can just feel his head connect with the stone behind him before everything is saturated in darkness.

m m m

Just before he comes to again, he can swear he feels the brush of leaves on his face. From where, he has no idea.

The hospital wing is lit only by the torches on the walls, as outside the sky is as black as pitch, separated by the immense patterns of stars always visible in a place as remote as Hogwarts. He can just see this as he looks upwards at the window above his bed, around the gleam from the dim light of the candle on his bedside table.

The next thing that he becomes aware of is a headache more intense than he's ever had in his life. It originates in the back of his head, a few inches above where his spine meets his skull, and spreads over his whole head, making spots dance before his eyes. Through the haze of sudden pain, he twitches his right ankle to find that Madam Pomfrey's got it mostly healed, with just a slight pinch when he bends it forward. He's got a fairly large cut through his elbow, but with magic it already looks a few days old.

It takes him a while to realize that there are other people around him, spread out on the unused beds, some asleep, some dosing, some wide awake. On the bed to his right, George and Angelina are arguing over a half finished game of Exploding Snap, while Ron looks on tiredly, head occasionally lolling to one side before snapping up again.

"You fucking cheated, I saw you!" her voice is raised in irritation.

George, however, just looks amused at her reaction. "Please, you saw nothing."

Fred lifts up his head wearily and squints at them. "Shouldn't you three be weeping over my bedside right now?"

George grins when he sees him. "Sorry mate, you just missed it."

"It was heart wrenching," Angelina says, her anger at George washing away. "Oscar worthy in it's sincerity, I thought."

Ron nods solemnly, now considerably more awake.

"How long have I been out?" Fred asks, biting back the shock of head pain that affronts him as he heaves himself into a sitting position. With one hand, he gently prods the back of his head, to find his red hair still slightly sticky with dried blood and a small dent he's sure wasn't there before.

"It's midnight, so about six hours, I'd say," Angelina tells him. "Madam Pomfrey said you wouldn't wake up till the morning. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking, with the Skele-Gro and all," she nods toward the bottle on a tray near him.

"Cracked your skull pretty bad," George says. "Thought you'd killed yourself for a second. Now it's just funny."

"He didn't think it was funny," Ron motions toward the figure on Fred's left. It's Charlie, thoroughly passed out on top of the sheets of a nearby bed. "He was just coming out to bring the dragon back in when he saw you fall."

"I didn't fall, I was—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Angelina interrupts. "Point is, never seen a person run so fast."

"We all got to you pretty quick," George says quietly, and there's a moment of silence where no one's quite sure what to say.

"Mum and dad don't know, do they?" Fred asks after a minute.

"Oh, they do, thanks to The Daily Prophet," George gives him a pitying look. "And Bill. Percy was here for a bit. Ginny for a while, but we sent her up to bed. Charlie sent Mum a Patronus and apparently she's currently trying to get you removed from the tournament."

"You're shitting me."

"If only. Dad'll calm her down though. Probably," George laughs. "And look on the bright side. You 'almost died', so she'll probably send you food at the very least.

"Oh, and I almost forgot! You're in second place. You got yourself knocked out, but you got the egg faster than Fleur and Krum, so it worked out..."

"Wait, you're saying Harry's in first?"

They all nod in synchronization, all with uncannily similar expressions on their faces.

"It was pretty amazing," Angelina murmurs. "He Summoned his Firebolt, no problems once he had that."

Fred just shakes his head in awe. "That kid..."

"...is something else," George finishes.


	9. Aftermath

**Author's Note: Thanks for all the reviews! For this chapter I just want to remind everybody that it all belongs to JK Rowling, especially a certain scene that I think we'll all remember. :)**

In his triumph, Fred decides that he's going to take the few weeks leading up to the holidays easy. Granted, this isn't hugely different than his usual work ethic when it comes to his classes, but the difference is that now most of his teachers aren't breathing down his neck about it. Minus Snape, that is, who is as sneering and sarcastic as usual.

On the Tuesday after the first task, McGonagall stops him as he's leaving Transfiguration with George and Angelina.

"Mr. Weasley," she says stiffly. "I just thought you should know, I found your transfiguring skills in the tournament were more than satisfactory, given the circumstances. Most wizards couldn't even partially change a dragon, much less under pressure."

It takes him a second to realize this is a compliment. He exchanges a quick look with George before smiling. "Thanks, professor."

She just nods, and they continue on their way.

A few days after this, a letter arrives from their Dad.

_Dear Fred (and George),_

_I have successfully convinced your mother that you are more than mature enough to handle the tournament. I may have also promised her that you wouldn't be hurt on any of the other tasks. Just thought you should know about that particular claus. _

_Congratulations on second place! _

_Love, _

_Dad_

Fred unconsciously reaches up to feel the dent in the back of his head that seems to have become permanent since that day in November.

"So, your mum's going to kill you if you get killed in the tournament?" Angelina half smiles, after reading the letter over his shoulder at breakfast.

"Did he just call us mature?" George frowns.

"Yes and yes," Fred replies to both of them.

"No more skull cracking?" Lee settles into a seat across from him at the Gryffindor table. "Shame. That was hilarious."

"Yeah, all the blood had me hysterical with laughter," says Katie dryly, giving Lee a withering look.

"That's a lot of pressure," Angelina says softly. "This tournament is dangerous."

"The fourteen year old managed the first task with just a scratch," George retorts. "He'll be fine."

Fred says nothing, storing the letter in an inside pocket of his robes.

"We should be getting to Transfiguration," reminds Katie, so they shove a few remnants of food in their mouths and head out of the Great Hall.

m m m

It's at the very end of class that McGonagall breaks away from the lesson to make an announcement. Fred's staring off into space and it takes his brain a few seconds to realize that she's no longer droning on in her usual tone.

"As you may have heard, the traditional Yule Ball will be held on Christmas Day at eight o'clock. You _will _wear dress robes and you _will _ behave. Understood?" Fred can't help but notice the pointed look in his, George, and Lee's direction.

"I'm sorry, professor, but what does the Ball entail?" a sixth year girl asks in confusion.

"It's a dance, first and foremost," McGonagall explains. "There is a formal dinner and then you will be encouraged to take a partner and enjoy the evening."

_Partner?_ thinks Fred, and a glance at George confirms similar thoughts.

"You're dismissed," she finishes a few seconds later, as the bell rings. For the second time, she holds Fred back, letting the other students leave.

"It is the tradition that the champions start off the ball, Mr. Weasley," she says sternly. "You will be expected to have a partner and to not embarrass the Gryffindor house."

"Me? Embarrass you, professor? Never," he grins and walks out of the classroom, meeting up with George again in the hallway. "You're not going to believe this."

"Try me," George grins identically.

They make their way back to the common room, speaking of McGonagall's words and speculating about the importance of the dance. In the common room, other sixth years with light class schedules are lounging around, discussing the same topic. The twins take a table in the corner, pulling out a half made order form for their joke supply and a couple of odd tidbits to experiment with while they talk.

"So you're going to ask Angelina, right?" George says after a moment, staring down at the parchment.

"I didn't say that."

He gives Fred a weary look. "First of all, I'm your twin. Second, who else?"

He pauses, thinking about going up to Angelina, pulling her aside, and asking her in hushed, serious tones whether she'd like to go to the ball with him. It seems so wrong, so unlike him. She'd probably think he was joking, would probably laugh in his face. He feels the blood rise to his cheeks just thinking about it.

"Who are you going to ask?" Fred says finally.

"Katie, probably. Maybe Alicia. A friend, ya know," George shrugs and then snorts. "Don't think any of the Beauxbatons girls are gonna go for me."

Fred nods, still submerged in thoughts of Angelina.

"Look," George leans forward conspiratorially. "If you're gonna ask her, you need to be nonchalant. Don't make a big deal out of it, cause she'll think you're fucking with her and it's just not her style. Like, yell at her across the room or something."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It'll be fine. You spend enough time staring at each other, it's about time one of you does something about it."

"I don't stare at her _that _much."

"Just ask her next time you see her, before some other prick does."

Fred nods resolutely.

m m m

As it turns out, 'next time he sees her' is ten minutes later, and she's surrounded by other girls he doesn't know. George coughs abnormally loudly and Fred gives him a poisonous look, which sends them both into raucous laughter.

Angelina just shakes her head in amusement at them and sits down across the common room, joining another conversation.

Two days pass, and Fred goes between avoiding her and making up excuses when she is around. It seems to be a trend shaping up this year—suddenly everything's a lot harder for Fred Weasley than it's ever been. The easy confidence, though still evident on the outside, is beginning to cave in on him, implode his insides.

"Have you done it yet?" Lee asks at lunch on the second to last day of term, sitting with Fred and George before the girls have arrived at the table.

"I'm working on it," Fred replies defensively, and they both snort. "Well, have you?"

"Yeah, Alicia asked me yesterday afternoon," Lee answers with a smirk. "I said yes."

"She asked you, doesn't count," Fred scowls and turns to George. "Well?"

"Katie, an hour ago. She said yeah."

Fred fixes them both with a disbelieving glare, and splutters, "how is this so easy for you two?"

George gives him a surprisingly wise stare. "Because we're not completely enamored with our dates. They're friends."

He just looks at him in response, wondering how George has acquired so much sudden knowledge of relationships in the last week.

But it takes another day of nerves for the perfect opportunity to present itself.

A delivery form for the joke shop comes in in the morning, and they'll have to borrow Pigwidgeon to fulfill it. Ron, Harry, and Hermione have taken root in a corner of the common room, and they approach to ask for the owl. Though they've given up attempting to persuade Ludo Bagman of anything, the trio is still suspicious, and so of course the twins answer as vaguely as possible when interrogated, only hoping that the younger kids' imaginations will run wild.

But the Yule Ball inevitably comes up, and inevitably they end up torturing Harry and Ron over their lack of dates. And then Fred's tongue goes on autopilot, his brain struggling to catch up.

"Who are you going with, then?" Ron asks.

"Angelina," Fred replies without a thought.

"What? You've already asked her?" Ron looks at him incredulously.

"Good point," Fred improvises, taking a fraction of a second to search the common room for Angelina. Thankfully, she's there, and once again his mouth is moving with little thought to back it up. "Oi! Angelina!"

She breaks away from a conversation with Alicia. "What?" she shouts back.

He's praying at this point, though desperately trying to keep it off his face, because this might be the worst moment he could've chosen if she does say no. "Wanna go to the ball with me?"

She looks him harshly up and down a moment, but then says simply, "Alright, then," and goes back to her conversation, with just the hint of an elated grin on her face.

"There you go," Fred says, because he's on a roll now, "piece of cake."

The trio stares at him, slack jawed with awe. And George too, to some extent.

"We'd better use a school owl, then, George..." he gets up, stretching, in the hope that it'll conceal any shaking of his hands.

Outside the portrait hole in the empty corridor, Fred stops to hold on to the stone railing and attempts to slow his heartbeat back down to normal rhythm. George steps forward and claps a hand on his shoulder. "That," he says, "was quite possibly the most brilliant thing I have ever seen."

He smiles back weakly, thinking that the Swedish Short Snout is nothing compared to that kind of stress.


	10. Floating Like a Lead Balloon

The week leading up to Christmas, also the first week where they have no classes for the holidays, is a busy one for the twins. Orders are coming in not only by owl but by the students around them, hoping to prank their friends now or on Christmas. In between producing mass quantities of their already well known products, they apply themselves to coming up with new ideas as well, and testing them out on each other.

By the fifth time one of them ends up in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey's beyond suspicious.

"I think we might have to hold off on the nougat," Fred admits one day, while sitting on the edge of one of the infirmary cots and holding an already blood soaked handkerchief to his nose. "We've got too much on right now."

"Yeah, you're probably right," George replies, sitting across from him and not looking up from a stack of order forms. "Oh, and I just found out, Neville got an early box of holiday chocolates from his grandmother. I think we might have to infiltrate a few of those."

Fred smiles around the bloody fabric. "Alright."

Just then, a canary that looks unusually like a second year is lead into the hospital wing by another panicking student. Madam Pomfrey makes it over just in time for the kid to molt back to human form. She gives the twins a poisonous look before telling the second year he'll be just fine. George waves amiably in their direction.

"Tapering off yet, Weasley?" she calls, sweeping up feathers across the cavernous room.

"I think so," Fred sniffles tentatively and no more blood leaks down his robes.

They're heading back to the common room when George remembers to ask. "Hey, have you tried anything on the egg?"

Fred stops walking. "Damn, I knew I was forgetting something."

"I mean, you've got until February, but..."

With everything that has gone on since the first task, he's put off thinking about the egg, figuring he just needs to get past the holidays before he can focus on it. Truthfully, he hasn't even opened his, not after Harry tried it in the common room and made everyone's ears explode. He assumes his will be equally repulsive, and so it's been resting under his bed for nearly a month.

"After Christmas," he hears himself promise. "I'll figure it out after Christmas."

George gives him a searching look through eyes that have dark circles under them. "Okay then."

Back in Gryffindor tower, George heads straight up the stairs to the dormitory.

"Hey, where're you going?" Fred asks before he disappears from view.

"I'm gonna see if I can get some sleep for a few minutes," he replies wearily.

Fred just nods, knowing his brother hasn't slept through the night in a week, for reasons unknown and a dream he doesn't want to discuss.

George doesn't bother to undress but simply drops his pile of parchment and quill, diving under the covers and praying for rest undisturbed.

He is not so lucky.

m m m

The week passes unevenly, the rate of time switching between break neck and slow as molasses. Nervous energy fills the castle as the Yule Ball approaches, while George sleep walks through the open days. Christmas Eve they send out their last few order fulfillments and bed down early.

George wakes up at four in the morning, later than has become usual, but doesn't bother to go back to sleep. He watches the owls deliver the wrapped parcels to the respective beds. Fred's eyes flutter open around eight.

"Happy Christmas," says George dully from behind half closed eyelids.

"How are you?"

"Shitty," he replies, as the other boys begin to stir. "Let's open presents."

The usual maroon sweaters have arrived from Mum, and they immediately switch letters. A few food items arrive from kids they don't know that well, and they're careful not to touch those, as they've heard rumors that some are out for revenge.

They head down to the breakfast feast with a large group of Gryffindors, already comparing notes on their presents. In the dining hall, Angelina is sitting with a group of girls at one end of the table, all talking excitedly and with an err of secrecy. She and Fred meet eyes for just a moment before he takes the first open seat, some distance away.

m m m

The grounds seem devoid of all female life as they trudge through fresh snow, back toward the castle, an hour before the ball is set to begin. Throughout the day, girls have been trickling back up to their dormitories to get ready, and none of them have reappeared since. At seven, Fred and George arrive at their own dormitory, and are the last to step over the threshold.

"What the fuck...?" Lee says in distracted frustration, half tangled in his dress robes.

George points his wand at him for half a second and the robes immediately begin to unwind themselves, the correct ends falling into Lee's hands.

"Thanks," Lee replies in surprise. "Where'd you learn how to do that?"

"Our dad," Fred grins. "He ends up swearing at his robes most days, too."

They reach under their beds, searching for the dress robes their mother had bought for them, left to collect dust until now. George pulls his out, gives them an up and down, appraising look. Plain black, not too objectionable, though clearly not first hand. Fred is holding up an identical pair next to his bed, his expression unreadable.

Forty-five minutes later they've undergone all the various grooming techniques men have the ability to access. Hair remains unkept, posture still slouching, but they've all managed to bathe and get clothes on, a miracle in itself.

The common room is a mess of confetti colored clothing, mingling nervously together, no one feeling easy enough to take a seat. They see Ron and Harry meet up with one half of the Patil twins before following Lee over to where Angelina, Katie, and Alicia are waiting together, making final adjustments to each other's clothing and hair.

However, Fred sees neither of the other two girls, or anyone else in the room, for that matter.

Angelina is dressed in elegant green satin, catering perfectly to her curves. Her hair has been twisted into flawless ringlets, framing her dimpled smile when she sees him. He's only ever seen her in school or quidditch uniform, but this...this stirs something inside him that he's sure he's never felt before.

They don't exchange words, just gazing at each other. Fred's mind has gone blank, his mouth failing him completely. He's not sure what he wants, his brain is too muddled to figure that out, but all he can put together is that he simply can't imagine being without her ever again in his life.

The air between the two of them is plainly charged with tension, and for a few seconds no one in the group moves. George and the others watch with conflicting emotions, somewhere between awkwardness, utter bafflement, and, jealousy.

It's only when the whole mass of Gryffindors begin the migration out of the common room do they snap out of their stupor. Fred and Angelina still remain silent, leading the other two couples out. George holds out an arm to Katie, draped in lavender, and they step through the portrait hole together.

"You look nice," George comments, but they're both still thinking about the encounter they've just witnessed. Fred and Angelina are walking stiffly ahead of them, hardly touching, as though containing themselves very carefully. The slightest turn of their heads and it's obvious both are flushed in the face.

"That's some kind of chemistry, isn't it?" Katie murmurs in an undertone, nodding toward them.

"Chemistry?"

"That intensity. The way they looked at each other. Some people are just like that," and then she adds, in an almost wistful tone, "Made to be together."

"You think?"

She shrugs. "You saw the same thing I saw just now, you tell me. Can't twins read minds or something?"

George says nothing, knowing it probably doesn't take a telepathic connection to figure out Fred's feelings toward Angelina.


End file.
